


Pull Me Closer

by cometchained



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Past Abuse, The Raven King Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:43:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cometchained/pseuds/cometchained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pynch drabbles mostly set after TRK, but with a few scattered memories to fill in the gaps during the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like Beauty and the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Visit me on tumblr @ starpatched.tumblr.com!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY ONE:** _“Fairy tale AU / mythology AU / alternative meetings”_

If Ronan Lynch is a prince, then he’s a terrible one.

This is what he tells himself, sitting on a throne made of earth that springs up from the ground. Vines curl around the legs of it, sprouting flowers of almost obscene colors: lush scarlet as red as blood, inky black that drips velvet-soft petals, blue like his own eyes, bright and stark against the green of the leaves. The trunk of a tree makes up the back of the throne, whorls and notches of bark and wood that scratch at his clothes, which is the last thing that Ronan cares about or even notices.

It’s hard to think about clothes when the sun is in front of him.

The phrase _he looked at her like she was the sun_ is a stupid one, Ronan thinks, because most people squint at the sun, and as long as you’re not an idiot, you’re not going to directly look into it without the risk of blinding yourself. Ronan has always been a reckless risk taker - but he’s not _stupid._

Most of the time.

The sun, to Ronan, is not some orb in the sky. It’s not some unreachable ball of plasma made mostly of hydrogen and helium that, if touched, would scorch you alive, leaving you nothing but ashes in your wake.

No, the sun to Ronan Lynch is Adam Parrish - warm, bright, and made of light.

Adam has always drawn Ronan’s eyes, and he draws them now, gaze sweeping across fine cheekbones and a delicate jaw that’s been bruised one too many times for Ronan’s liking. He is tall and fair, like always, and the vines that are curled in the palm of his hand and spread up around his wrist and arm are just as slender as he is, loosely wrapping. Tiny buds of green and pink give hints to little flowers that have yet to bloom, and tucked around Adam’s dusty hair is a circlet of leaves and the same little pink and green buds.

He’s elegant in a way that almost hurts.

Adam’s head is dipped in respect towards Ronan now, the vines from his hand a light green in comparison with the darker, almost blackened ones that twist and curl around Ronan’s throne. 

“Your highness,” he says politely, and Ronan’s upper lip curls.

“Don’t call me that.”

The faintest hint of a smile touches Adam’s fragile-boned face.

“What else should I call you?”

Ronan has a myriad of answers to that, only half of them appropriate. He settles for one that’s almost the least offensive.

“Something else.”

The smile is less faint now, becoming more defined. Ronan wants to trace his fingers over the curve of Adam’s lips as they start to pull upwards.

“Not helpful...your highness.”

Ronan’s scowl becomes more pronounced.

“I _told_ you - “

“Not to call you that. Yes, I heard you the first time.”

The tension in Ronan is like a strap pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment. He doesn’t want it to be out of irritation, which always seems to simmer through his veins, bubbling just below the surface of his emotions so that it bursts out at all the wrong times. Violence is something that Ronan is too used to, and Adam Parrish needs no more violence in his life.

He’s had enough of that already.

Adam is looking at him studiously; Ronan feels like he’s being examined, and isn’t sure he likes the feel of it. Or maybe he does, because it means that Adam’s looking at him.

“What, Parrish?” he snaps, and Adam’s eyes flick up to rest on Ronan’s face, all sharp angles.

“Prince of Night,” Adam says softly, and Ronan’s lips press together. He’s silent for a moment, and then he says, voice low,

“Prince of Day.”

They’re stupid names; Ronan hates them, just as he hates the arbitrary line drawn between them. 

Adam steps forward, and Ronan feels his heart skip a beat. Slender fingers slide along Ronan’s jaw, a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings against his skin, and his hands clench on the arms of his throne, digging into the vines.

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Adam’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper. Ronan’s chest feels like he’s trying to breathe too much all at once.

“Too long,” he says.

Adam’s lips curve up into a sad smile. His palm is now against Ronan’s cheek.

“Go to sleep.”

“No.” He can’t; if he goes to sleep now, he won’t be able to see this beautiful creature standing in front of him, all elegant planes and sweeping constellations of freckles across tanned skin, and fair hair beneath his crown of flowers and branches. Something inside of Ronan aches like a physical pain; like a vine curled around his heart.

Adam leans closer, and his eyes are half lidded as he takes Ronan’s chin between his fingers, tilts his head up.

 _”Sleep, my prince,”_ he whispers, close enough that their lips touch and the words are breathed out against them, like silken sweetness, a taste of honey on Ronan’s tongue. _”Sleep, so you can wake.”_

Ronan closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, the shadows take a minute to formulate, blackness shifting to take shape. A desk. A door. A couch, with a sleeping form on it that Ronan realizes a few seconds later is Opal, curled up on her side, sound asleep. He watches her contented face and lets himself bask, privately, in her nearness, in her _existence._

Ronan pushes himself up, the blankets pooling at his waist, head turning, eyes searching, always, always looking for him, because he can’t help himself; he’s always trying to find him, gaze drawn like a magnet even when he’s not making the attempt, heart in his throat.

Adam is in an armchair, curled up sideways in it and dozing. He’s not even supposed to be here at the Barns; Ronan only half remembers the sound of footsteps, the brush of a hand, and yet he’s not entirely sure that it’s not something he’s dreamed up. For a moment, Ronan is terrified that this Adam is not real, in the way that Matthew isn’t real, in the way that Opal and his mother aren’t real. That this Adam is merely a figment of his imagination as well.

Something he’s dreamed up, like the Adam of the sun, like the vines that curled around his arm.

“Are you real?”

The question is asked before he can stop himself, voice low and rough from sleep, from everything. Adam gives every appearance at being asleep, and yet the question makes him open his eyes, slow and calm, as though he’s been waiting to hear it. He turns his head, arms curled against his chest, and looks at Ronan, sitting tensely on the floor of the living room in his nest of blankets and cushions and pillows. 

There are dark circles beneath Adam’s eyes; he seems tired, and yet he doesn’t seem surprised by the question, either. Still dressed in jeans and a faded teeshirt, he unfolds himself from the armchair, all long limbs and fragile bones, until he’s sitting up, rubbing at his face.

“I’m real,” he says quietly, and his voice is like a balm to Ronan’s heart. “I’m here, Ronan.”

They sit like that, watching one another. Ronan’s eyes sweep across the lines of Adam’s face, the sleep tousled hair, the exhaustion seeping out from him. He’s supposed to be at college; Harvard is a good ten hour drive, so either he spent all day driving to the Barns, or he flew and Ronan just didn’t know.

But he doesn’t really care _how_ Adam is here, just that he _is._

Ronan stretches out a hand, wordless. Adam glances at it, then stands and pads over, and work worn fingers slide across Ronan’s, tangle together as Ronan tugs him down. Adam folds himself onto the pile of blankets beside him, leaning in automatically, instinctively, as though they both need the reassurance and the reminder.

Ronan isn’t sure how long it’ll take him to get used to this - Adam’s lips on his, warm and a little chapped, softer than he ever imagined, and unhesitant. He slides fingers into the hair at the nape of Adam’s neck, tilts his head and lets his mouth linger, because it’s everything all at once.

“Ronan,” Adam breathes against his lips; a sigh of relief. “I missed you.”

It’s been almost two months. The ache in Ronan’s chest feels lighter, and he wants to bury himself in everything that is Adam Parrish, let it envelope him so that it takes over the darker, more fragmented parts of his soul. 

There is something curled in Ronan’s free hand. He shifts, glancing down at his palm, and gives a little, short, surprised laugh.

“What?” Adam asks, forehead resting against Ronan’s temple. “What is it? Did you bring something back?”

Ronan leans back enough to lift the thing and, with a certain sense of irony and amusement and wonder all at once, carefully tucks the little branch of pink and green flowers behind one of Adam’s ears. It looks startlingly familiar against his fair hair and warm skin, and Adam raises an eyebrow.

“Charming,” he says, and Ronan grins.

“For my Prince Charming,” he deadpans, and Adam is snorting.

“Idiot,” he says, Henrietta drawl sliding the last few letters together. “Like you ever even watched Disney.”

Ronan jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Opal, still thankfully asleep.

“She doesn’t want to watch anything else,’ he says, rolling his eyes. “I think I’ve seen _Cinderella_ three times in the past two days.”

Adam smiles, but he’s got that far off look on his face that always makes Ronan simultaneously curious and a little nervous.

“What are you doing here?” he asks - not that he doesn’t want to see Adam. He wants to see Adam every day for the rest of his life if he can help it, but Adam’s next visit isn’t supposed to be for another two weeks and one day.

Not that Ronan’s been counting.

One of Adam’s slim shoulders rises and falls in a half shrug. He lifts a hand and gently slides his fingers along Ronan’s jaw, eyes flickering as Ronan’s heart decides to do a tango inside of his chest.

“I missed you,” he says again. “I woke up this morning and just...I wanted to see you.”

An inexplicable longing that Ronan knows all too well. He reaches up and takes ahold of Adam’s hand, lacing their fingers together as he leans closer, breath short.

“I missed you, too,” he breathes, and kisses him.

He falls asleep with an arm around Adam’s waist, Adam’s back against his chest. The flower is rumpled beneath Adam’s head and hair, but isn’t squashed; in fact, as Opal tugs it free sometime in the early morning, it looks just as soft and lovely as it did tucked behind Adam’s ear.

Ronan puts it in a jar that Adam keeps on the dashboard of his car.

 _”Like Beauty and the Beast,”_ Opal says.

“Except without the pitchforks,” Ronan snorts.

“And the dying,” Adam adds.

“No fucking dying.”

Adam just reaches over and takes Ronan’s hand.

If Ronan Lynch is a prince, then he’s a terrible one. But really, he’s okay with that.


	2. Melodic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **DAY TWO:** _”Sun kissed skin / prom night / morning after”_

“Fuck, no.”

Gansey’s voice is patiently exasperated. “Ronan - “

“Look, I already agreed to go to this fucking thing, I did _not_ agree to wear a damn tie.”

Adam turns a page of his textbook and says, without looking up, “Lynch.”

_”Parrish.”_

_”Lynch.”_

He’ll wear the damn tie.

Prom is not something that Ronan Lynch has _ever_ considered in this lifetime; he’s not even sure the two words go together in the same sentence. But, as both Gansey and Blue have pointed out already - multiple times - it’s their last real chance to do things as a group before graduation, before Gansey and Blue and Henry go off on their road trip, before Adam goes off to Harvard.

Before Ronan stays at the Barns with Opal.

He’s not upset at his turn of life; in fact, Ronan is more content now than he has been since his father died. Nothing is perfect - nothing is ever perfect - but at least he has things that are satisfying to him.

Even if everyone is leaving him.

It’s not even a question, really. Blue has always wanted to leave Henrietta, and Gansey and Henry going with her is a given. It’s the same with Adam; he’s wanted to get out for years, has worked his entire high school career just to be able to open that acceptance letter from Harvard University a few weeks ago.

Ronan can’t get the look of pure astonishment and excitement on Adam’s face out of his head.

Adam isn’t technically a prom person either, but like hell Ronan is going without Adam, and like hell Ronan is going with anyone _but_ Adam. It’s not even technically a date, he supposes; more of a general group agreement when they were all at Nino’s one day, after a lot of grumbling, creative swearing, and reluctance on Ronan’s behalf. 

Ronan isn’t even sure how prom is supposed to work.

They go together, Gansey picking them all up, because Adam point blank refused to hire a limo, and Gansey thought it wasn’t worth the argument. Ronan gets ready at Monmouth, just him and Gansey, picking idly at the extremely expensive tuxedo he’s rented for the evening.

“I feel like I’m going to a fuckin’ funeral,” he mutters.

Gansey’s straightening his bow-tie in the mirror, hair swept back artfully from his forehead. “At least it’s not mine,” he says amiably, and Ronan resists the urge to slap him. 

_Almost,_ he thinks, watching the line of Gansey’s back. _We almost fucking did._

But he doesn’t say anything, and climbs into the backseat of the Pig without much hassle.

Blue is the first to be picked up. Her dress is several different colors all at once, in varying shades of purple mostly, with little thin straps and layers that make everything very...Blue-ish. Her hair is tamed, and she’s practically glowing as she leans in to kiss Gansey at the front step, Maura and Calla’s cackling laughter echoing from inside the house.

“Not bad, maggot,” Ronan cracks as she climbs into the car, and she turns to look at him, a grin on her face.

“Not bad yourself, asshole,” she says airily, and Ronan smirks, arms folded across his chest.

When they get to Adam’s, they make Ronan go up and get him, because they’re early, and Adam isn’t there waiting like he normally would be. Ronan suspects it’s more about Gansey and Blue wanting some private alone time than it is with him technically being Adam’s date, but he doesn’t complain, climbing the steps to Adam’s tiny apartment.

He knocks on the door, feeling oddly tense, as though all of his limbs are too stiff. 

Adam’s voice comes slightly muffled from inside.

“Just - ow - just a second!”

There’s a thumping sound, a little crash, and the door is wrenched open abruptly.

“Jeez, Parrish,” Ronan says, “What are you doing in there, smashing things without me…”

He trails off, because startlingly, for the first time in his life that he can remember, Ronan Lynch is at a loss for words.

Adam is only mostly dressed, but that doesn’t change the effect it has. He’s wearing a pair of black slacks, and a white dress shirt that’s tucked carefully in, a long, sleek blue tie knotted at his neck. His black coat with its thin lapels fits him like a glove, and the fair hair is pushed back, the cheeks of his freckled face slightly flushed.

“I’m - not ready yet,” Adam says, a little breathlessly, as he tugs at his tie. “Hey.”

Ronan, realizing his mouth is slightly ajar, closes it again. Finally he says, “You clean up nicely, Parrish.”

Adam smiles, really smiles, and it’s breathtaking. All of Adam’s smiles are breathtaking.

“You’re not so bad yourself, Lynch,” he says lightly, gaze flickering up and down the tuxedo. “Is that one of Gansey’s?”

“Rented,” Ronan says, “Gansey’s shit doesn’t fit me.”

Adam is fixing his tie again, elegant fingers shifting the silk. He looks slightly nervous, Ronan’s gaze moving automatically to his hands, because he can’t quite help himself.

“Are they in the car?” he asks, a little distractedly.

“Yeah. Sucking face, I’m sure.”

Adam makes a face, and then moves over to the desk, fiddling with drawers. Ronan takes a step into the tiny room, glancing around.

“What are you looking for?”

There’s a hesitation before a reply.

“Uh. My - one sec - “

It’s not really an answer, Ronan’s eyebrows raising. He’s seen Adam flustered before, but not like this, not like...not this endearing, sweet, slightly anxious fluttering, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, because Adam Parrish has always been incredibly self-reliant. It’s part of what makes him so fascinating, among other things.

Ronan steps across the room, reaches out, and closes fingers around Adam’s wrist. Slowly, he draws him back from the desk, and Adam lets him, his expression a little wary.

“Hey,” he says, and he feels some of the tension in Adam ease.

“Hey,” he replies, and Ronan’s lips curve up into a smile. 

It’s easy - so wonderfully, heart stoppingly easy - to lean forward at the same time Adam does, both of them meeting halfway. Ronan’s hand is still holding Adam’s wrist, his other curling around Adam’s waist beneath his jacket, holding him in place as they kiss, probably longer than they should considering there are people waiting in the car.

When Ronan draws back, he rests his forehead against Adam’s for a moment.

“Nervous?” he asks, and Adam smiles.

“A little,” he admits. “You?”

Ronan considers this.

“Never.”

“Liar.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You are right now.”

“Maybe a little.”

They both laugh, and it’s a sound that Ronan wants to hear for the rest of his life.

When they finally get to the car, it's probably obvious what they've been doing, and Gansey is grinning, but Adam holds his head high and slides his fingers through Ronan’s, neither one of them acknowledging these totally judgemental friends of theirs.

Prom ends up being more fun than Ronan thinks - but maybe that’s just because he gets to spend most of the evening with Adam curled up in his arms as they sway on the dance floor, purposefully ignoring all of the wide-eyed, open-mouthed stares they get, all of which are due to Ronan Lynch actually attending a school function without being forced to at gunpoint. At some point in time, Henry joins their little crew, and all five of them wind up laughing uproariously at their own table, Gansey slapping the table at some joke Henry’s made and Adam chuckling against Ronan’s shoulder, Blue giggling madly.

In the end, Ronan thinks maybe the tie was worth it after all.


	3. If I Just Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day Three:** _”Passion / caught / lonely nights”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on Tumblr @ starpatched.tumblr.com!

They haven’t talked about it.

Adam wonders if they should - in fact, _knows_ they should. But it’s only been a week since Gansey has been alive again, a week since Cabeswater has sacrificed itself, a week since they lost Noah.

A week and a few days since he was lying sprawled on the couch with Ronan Lynch, Ronan’s lips against his fingers, the taste of Ronan’s kisses in his mouth.

They haven’t kissed since then, haven’t really had a chance to do anything more than talk briefly when they’re all together - Gansey, Blue, Ronan, and Adam. Adam’s chest feels hollow with the knowledge of it all; there’s an ache there that he can’t really explain, as though there’s some part of himself that’s trying to get out and has no way to.

 _”I don’t even know what I want, how I feel,”_ he’d almost said to Gansey.

It’s been a week, and Adam knows how he feels.

His feelings for Ronan burn through him like a brush fire, and he can’t control them. Adam has pushed aside everything for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to actually _feel_ something other than shame and embarrassment and a pride he’s held onto for most of his life. There are many things that he’s wanted - to be Gansey, to be a part of Aglionby, to be rich, to be self-reliant.

To be himself.

To have Ronan Lynch keep looking at him the way he has for so long, because Ronan is the only thing that calms Adam’s heart.

Adam is still trying to figure out his head when there’s a knock at his door.

His apartment over St. Agnes is so small it’s barely enough room for himself, let alone two people. But when Adam opens the door, Ronan comes strolling in as though he belongs there, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his black tank proclaiming something violent in scratchy silver letters.

Adam has to take a moment to remember to breathe.

“Parrish,” says Ronan, as Adam closes the door behind him and turns to look at him.

“Lynch,” says Adam.

There’s a beat of silence that feels thick. Adam doesn’t know what to say, if he should ask _what is this between us,_ if he should talk to Ronan to figure out where they go from here, because he needs to know - they both do. Everything unspoken hangs between them, and it’s the first time they’ve been alone since Gansey was revived. 

Adam has always known what he wants (to be accepted, to be _known_ ) and where he’s going (away from Henrietta, far from this place, on his own) - except when it comes to Ronan.

There’s another beat of silence as Ronan watches him, eyes quiet, all harsh angles and sharp edges, electric energy brimming beneath the surface of his skin. There are entire worlds beneath the blue of his eyes, whole places that Adam can’t even fathom but that he aches to travel to, and maybe that’s the answer right there.

“Adam - “ Ronan starts to say, but Adam cuts across.

“Kiss me.”

Ronan stares at him, tense and startled. It’s not what Adam meant to say, the words hanging between them like shards of ice, and he can’t take them back, and he was supposed to _talk_ and -

It takes only two steps for him to cross the room, and then his hands are on either side of Adam’s face, his mouth on Adam’s mouth, and Adam thinks, _Oh. This. This is what I want._

_I want Ronan Lynch._

It’s not really a revelation. Some part of Adam has been yearning for Ronan for months now, maybe longer; a steadily growing, quiet need that has only just now burst into bloom, like the flowers that have disappeared with Cabeswater. He remembers Gansey telling him to be honest with himself, and when was the last time Adam Parrish was ever honest with himself?

Now, he thinks. Now, and that time at the Barns, tangled on the couch with Ronan, learning what it was to be a part of Ronan’s thoughts.

Ronan is kissing him like he’s desperate for him, the same way that he speaks sometimes; eager and hungry and full of that painfully bright passion that’s almost blinding if looked at the wrong way. But the hands on Adam’s face are achingly gentle, almost reverent as they tilt his head up just a fraction of an inch.

Adam can taste a sweetness on his tongue, something like peppermint. His own fingers clench in the side of Ronan’s shirt, and every part of him feels exhilarated, nerve endings fraying.

The fire is surging inside of him, overtaking him with thoughts of Ronan, the taste of his mouth, the pressure of his hands, the sense of need and want in both of them.

Adam needs to breathe. He does so with shuddering, ragged intakes that sound similar to Ronan’s, their foreheads pressed together, his hands still cradling Adam’s face.

“Ronan - “

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air between them. Adam can’t stop staring, because they’re not imagined words, inside of his head. Ronan’s expression is a mixture of pained and resolute as he leans back enough to look at Adam, his thumbs smoothing across cheekbones, his body tensed as if for flight. But even with the resignation - as though he half expects Adam to be disgusted by this - there is a ferocity in Ronan’s gaze that adds truth to his words, undeniable truth.

 _What does it mean to be loved by Ronan Lynch?_ Adam wonders.

He says nothing, just stares; and when he doesn’t pull away, Ronan leans forward again, the brush of his lips an ache.

“Adam,” Ronan murmurs into his mouth. “I love you.”

It feels like falling. It feels like flying.

It feels like terror and hope and wonder and amazement and incredulity and warmth all at the same time.

Ronan’s hands slide down the sides of Adam’s neck, over his shoulders, and then lower, gripping his waist. They slide beneath the cotton of his teeshirt - a startling burst of heat against his bare skin - and tug Adam closer, so that they’re pressed together, and Adam is having trouble thinking, because this is Ronan. Sharp edged, temperamental, vicious mouthed, angry Ronan with a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana.

Except all of those sharp edges, all of that temper, that vicious, sweet mouth, that anger - all of that is exactly what Adam is used to.

All of that makes up the _Ronan Lynch_ that Adam Parrish wants in his life.

Adam’s hands have risen to rest on Ronan’s upper arms. For a moment they just look at each other, the air thick with words caught in throats, with emotions written on faces. And when Ronan leans questioningly closer, Adam doesn’t resist, so that when Ronan kisses him, his hands dipping lower, he sinks into it, fingers gripping tight, body against body.

Ronan breathes _I love yous_ into Adam’s skin, etching words against his throat, his chest, the palm of his hand, the tips of his fingers. Tangled together in Adam’s small bed, Adam buries his face into Ronan’s shoulder, feels the scrape of teeth against his neck, every touch scorching, until all he can see and all he can feel is _Ronan, Ronan, Ronan._

Later, when they’re pressed together sleepily and breathlessly, and Ronan has his face against the back of Adam’s neck, Adam whispers, 

“I love you, too.”

He can feel Ronan freeze behind him, as though the words have unlocked something vast and powerful inside of him. But then he relaxes, a breath ghosting across Adam’s flushed, damp skin, and Ronan presses a kiss to the base of Adam’s neck, lingering, his hand pressed flat to Adam’s bare chest so that he can feel the beating of his heart. He curls his body against Adam’s, buries his face in Adam’s hair, and Adam knows without having to look that Ronan is emotional.

He reaches up, takes ahold of Ronan’s hand, and decides then and there that he’s never letting go of it.


	4. Right Here and Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day Four:** _” ‘Try me’ / ‘I thought I lost you’ / ‘I’m begging you’ “_

Ronan remembers what it felt like to watch Robert Parrish drop his son down the stairs.

He remembers hitting the brakes in his BMW, feeling the screech of metal grinding against metal, the lurch of the car as it came to such a sudden stop that Ronan nearly smacked his head into the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror.

He remembers seeing Robert Parrish backhand Adam across the face; a sharp, unhesitating, violent blow, too fast to stop, too intense to block, even for Adam, closer than Ronan.

And he remembers watching Adam fall.

It seemed almost endless, at the time; as though time had slowed, because for some terrible reason, the universe needed to watch it all unfold:

Adam’s slim shoulders, rigid with tension. His arms, flailing outwards, hands grasping at nothing but air, the way his feet seemed to slip out from beneath him, losing what little balance they’d had.

The crack of his head against the railing; a sickening, crunching sound muffled by the windows of the BMW, but still audible, ringing across the silent night around them like some awful parody of a movie Ronan had wished neither of them were in.

Adam, curled on the ground, gasping soundlessly in pain.

And his father, standing there, watching in disgust.

It was satisfying, Ronan remembers, sinking his fist into Robert Parrish’s awful face. He doesn’t remember the part before that - putting the car into park and getting out - but he remembers the white hot fury that seemed to burn through his very veins, scorching and searing. He remembers the loathing, the hatred, choking his throat, making it difficult to breathe, except he _had_ to keep breathing, he _had_ to keep going.

For Adam.

Adam, crouched desolately, painfully on the ground. Ronan remembers the smear of dust across his reddened, freckled cheek, the dizziness in his eyes, the utter sense of despair emanating from the fracture lines he could read across his face.

And he’d thought, _I can't lose you._

 _What would have happened if I had driven away?_ Ronan thinks now, absently smoothing a finger across the mug in his hand, the smell of hot cocoa rising to meet his senses. _What would have happened if I hadn’t stayed to make sure that you got home okay?_

_Would you still love me if I hadn’t attacked your father?_

He still can't erase the anger that boils inside of him every time he thinks of Robert Parrish's joke of a sentencing.

Adam stands a few feet away at the countertop, idly stirring creamer into his own mug, the lines of his shoulders relaxed, at ease. The kitchen at the Barns smells like cocoa and warmth, even in the middle of summer, and Ronan can’t help but be hungry for this sight: Adam, in his house, in his life, as though he’s used to being here, as though he belongs here just as much as Ronan does. It’s a throbbing ache of a hunger, curling through Ronan’s chest with greedy fingers, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it.

 _I could have lost you that night,_ he thinks, eyes flickering across Adam’s back, tracing lines over the planes he can see vaguely beneath the teeshirt he wears. _I could have lost you any of those nights you were with your father. Or when you made the bargain with Cabeswater. Or when Cabeswater tried to take you from me, tried to take **me** from **you.**_

_I could have lost you, but I didn’t._

Too many times. Too many near-misses. Ronan’s throat feels thick with it.

“Here.”

Ronan is dragged from his thoughts by Adam passing him a plate of cookies. It’s almost ten at night, but that makes no difference to Ronan, even if Adam looks tired. This has become their nightly routine whenever Adam stays over: hot cocoa and cookies before bed. 

Except this time, Ronan reaches out, takes the plate, and sets it on the table next to his mug. Then he takes Adam’s mug from his hand as well, deposits it safely to the side, and, ignoring Adam’s surprised expression, reaches out and takes ahold of Adam’s hands with both of his.

His beautiful, elegant hands. Ronan lifts them to his mouth and kisses them.

“Ronan?” Adam says softly, not protesting; there’s a question in his name. Ronan flicks his gaze up, not lowering Adam’s hands, tangled with his own.

“I almost lost you,” he says roughly, without context, and something in Adam’s face seems to shift, sadden to something more resigned. He does not need context to understand what Ronan is saying.

“I know,” he says quietly, and Ronan pushes himself to his feet. They’re not that much different in height, with Ronan just an inch or two taller. He takes Adam’s face between his hands, leans forward, and presses his lips to Adam’s left ear; a soft, gentle kiss before he draws back, thumbs smoothing over fine cheekbones.

Adam has raised his own hands to rest atop Ronan’s, looking up at him silently, and Ronan remembers watching him after their first kiss, wondering if there was going to be more, praying desperately that he hadn’t just laid his heart bare for nothing.

Adam answers the question Ronan hasn’t asked.

“You won’t lose me,” he says, and Ronan kisses the words from his lips.


	5. Starting Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day Five:** _"Memory lane / catharsis / Las Vegas"_

_Ronan_

“Ronan,” says Gansey, “This is Adam Parrish.”

It’s eight twenty-six on a Tuesday morning, and Ronan has his feet up on the desk, as usual. He doesn’t want to be here, can’t even possibly explain how much he _really does not want to be here,_ but it’s here he is. _Good ‘ole fucking Aglionby Academy,_ Ronan thinks dourly, flicking pencils across his desk and watching the way they snap under people’s feet. He likes the little cracking sound.

He also almost doesn’t hear what Gansey is saying.

They have class together, he and Gansey, and this one just happens to be Latin; Ronan’s best subject, ironically. He thinks he vaguely recalls the name _Adam Parrish,_ except all it brings to mind is dirt colored hair and the fact that he’s pretty sure it’s the name listed under his for best grades in Latin. Other than that, knows nothing.

“Who?”

“Adam _Parrish,”_ Gansey repeats patiently, like he’s talking to a four year old. “Adam, this is Ronan Lynch.”

Ronan finally tears his gaze from his latest pencil victim, sliding it towards the figure standing beside Gansey’s desk.

He’s not what Ronan expects.

For one thing, Adam Parrish does not exude the same sort of...otherworldliness that Gansey does; or at least, one side of Gansey. For another, he does not exude the same sort of arrogant confidence that everyone else at Aglionby does, half without intending to, half completely intending to. Instead, there is something quiet and almost soft about Adam Parrish that draws Ronan’s attention to him.

He’s tall - nearly as tall as Ronan is, which is just above six feet, making Adam probably five eleven, or six feet exactly, Ronan can’t quite tell sitting down. His skin, so completely unlike Ronan’s paleness, is a dusky tan that speaks of years spent outdoors, a faint smattering of freckles across finely boned cheeks. Brown hair is swept casually, neatly, to the side, revealing his blue eyes, and everything, down to his shoes, are carefully tidy and pressed, giving the impression, Ronan thinks, of a Good Student. Even his features are elegant and oddly pleasing to look at.

Except that even Ronan can tell the uniform isn’t new. A faint stray thread here, a scuff mark on his shoe; this isn’t a pristine outfit, but it’s kept meticulously, as though Adam Parrish is determined to keep it as perfect as he can.

There is the slightest flush to his cheeks; a faint hint of pink that crosses the freckles. He looks self conscious as Ronan eyes him, brows drawing together, though it’s clear he’s trying not to be.

Gansey is watching both of them with an expression that suggests a mixture of wariness and pleasure; clearly he’s hoping the two of them will get along well, though Ronan’s sharp edges make everything more difficult than it should be.

Ronan Lynch does not want to be friends with Adam Parrish.

Ronan Lynch does not want Gansey to be friends with Adam Parrish.

 _What does this mean,_ he thinks, the expression on his face unchanged from the casually irritated one he’s been wearing. _What does this mean for us? Am I going to be replaced? Shut out? Is this guy moving into Monmouth too?_

He doesn’t want that, doesn’t want _any_ of that. The idea of Gansey finding someone else to take along for his Glendower quest leaves smoke in Ronan’s mouth, the taste of ashes thick and unpleasant. It doesn’t help that Adam Parrish looks like the last person who should be a part of their duo, with his fair looks and hand-me-down uniform, all quiet politeness and intelligence that rubs Ronan the wrong way.

Ronan lets his gaze flick deliberately over Adam’s sweater with its raven crest, savagely ignoring the way he can see Adam’s ears burn. 

“Parrish,” he says smoothly, airily. “Didn’t know they allowed poor boys in here, too.”

“Ronan,” says Gansey, the syllables ringing with warning and a quiet anger. “Lynch.”

Adam looks slightly dazed. Ronan lets one shoulder rise and fall in a careless shrug and turns away. Jealousy is coiling, thick and coarse in his throat, and he has to resist the urge to snap like a dog, teeth gritted together. He and Gansey are a pair, hunting like brothers for a sleeping king. They don’t _need_ anyone else.

He can hear Gansey’s voice, low and apologetic, the slide and rustle of fabric as Adam sits down, the thump of books on his desk as he pulls them from his bag.

 _I will never,_ Ronan thinks dismissively, _be friends with him. Gansey will get bored of him when he realizes Parrish has nothing to offer._

_And then everything will be back to normal._

 

_Adam_

“Adam,” says Gansey, “This is Ronan Lynch.”

Adam knows this already, of course. He knows an embarrassing amount about Richard Gansey III and his constant association with Ronan Lynch, class skipper and general troublemaker extraordinaire. There’s something obviously interesting about Gansey himself - all charisma and curiosity and kindness and political perfection and intelligence mixed into one contradictory being that Adam can only hope to be like one day. But there’s something almost magnetic about Ronan Lynch; he’s like a force of nature all on his own, sharply handsome, all barbs and wire and snapping vitriol and a disregard for most people that would have had society backing away as fast as possible.

Adam, unfortunately, probably isn’t as sensible as those people.

He can feel Ronan looking at him, and feels the beginnings of a flush creep up the back of his neck as he stands there in his secondhand uniform, Adam’s hand loose on the strap of his backpack. He can suddenly remember every little wrinkle and every stray thread, and beneath the critical eye of Ronan Lynch, Adam wonders why he ever thought he could possibly be friends with this pit bull of a boy with his shaved head and sharp jaw. Gansey is one thing; it took more courage than Adam cares to admit to stop and talk to him in the first place, but Ronan Lynch is an entire story - an entire world - all on his own. 

He finds he’s a little afraid of Ronan Lynch.

His palms are slightly sweaty; Adam hopes they can’t tell that he’s nervous, that he wants so desperately for these two boys to like him; a yearning so powerful it’s almost shameful, because he shouldn’t wish for the impossible. Gansey is watching Ronan more than he is Adam, eyes wary, and Adam is trying to look as though he belongs here, at Aglionby, even in his hand-me-down clothing and his scholarship and his stupid Henrietta accent that he’s still trying to melt down into nothing. In fact, he’s relatively certain that Ronan Lynch is about to say something scathing, and then Gansey will second-guess his decision to talk to Adam, because Gansey and Ronan come as a pair for a reason.

_Didn’t know they let poor boys in here too._

It’s like a slap in the face, Adam’s ears reddening. His brain works furiously to try and come up with something witty in return; a casual dismissal of a response that he can toss back at that carelessly blase boy sitting across from him. 

Nothing comes to mind.

_I knew this was a bad idea._

Gansey’s voice is quiet; he’s the type of person that doesn’t need to yell to have an impact, every tone and every pitch and cadence of every syllable laden with intention and meaning. He sounds a little angry, maybe a little reproachful, as Adam slides dazedly into his chair and reaches for the books in his bag, trying not to show the resignation of imminent dismissal on his face.

Gansey will dismiss him now, he’s sure of it.

“Hey, sorry about him.”

Adam’s head snaps up, hands stilling on the textbook in front of him. Gansey is leaning with an elbow resting on Adam’s desk, his expression concerned.

“He’ll be okay around you soon enough,” Gansey says reassuringly. “Just give it some time, he’s kinda…”

He trails off, Adam’s heart beating a slow rhythm against his chest. He swallows hard, because this isn’t what he expected at all. He was waiting for the _this isn’t going to work after all_ and the _well, maybe we should rethink this._

It doesn’t come. Gansey gives him a broad smile, thumps his hand on Adam’s desk in an amicable, _hang in there_ sort of way, and then twists around to face the front as their teacher comes in.

Adam closes his open mouth. After a few seconds, he dares to look sideways at Ronan Lynch again, wondering, in spite of everything, what he’s thinking.

Ronan has an elbow on his desk and his chin in his hand. The sunlight from the window beside him throws all of his features into sharp, shadowy relief, all razor edges and an absurd violent grace. He’s not looking at Adam, but staring sullenly ahead at the teacher, though his expression indicates he has little intention of actually listening to him.

Adam wonders if he gets too close to Ronan Lynch if he’ll cut himself.

(The answer is probably yes.)


	6. Marshmallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day Six:** _"De-aged (age regression) / memes / grocery store"_

“I’m pretty sure,” Adam says carefully, “that I don’t need three bags of marshmallows.”

Ronan, in the process of placing said bags of marshmallows into the cart, merely snorts.

“Nobody needs to get tattoos on their ass, and _yet,”_ he says airily, tossing a jar of Nutella in next, followed by a bag of chocolate chips. Adam eyes them, then eyes the person that continues to add junk food to his cart.

 _”Ronan,”_ he says, with some exasperation. “I need actual _food_ in my dorm. The kind you can actually eat, not the kind that involves an open fire and a lot of sticks.”

Ronan gives a careless shrug, the kind of shrug that usually makes teachers aggravated and Declan positively apoplectic; a somehow graceful rise and fall of one shoulder that gives off an impression of pure obstinacy in one fluid movement, the kind of thing that only Ronan Lynch can do.

Then he tosses a box of graham crackers into the cart.

Winter break at Harvard is only a week long, but it’s a week that Adam has been looking forward to for months now, because it means a break from the endless studying and the end of finals. And, most importantly, it means a visit from Ronan, something that’s been planned out for so long that it feels almost impossible that it’s actually here and now.

Ronan Lynch, in Boston, away from Henrietta, is a thing of magic in and of itself. Adam’s last break was spent at the Barns, and as a compromise, Ronan is here now, for the winter holidays. According to Gansey, Declan is taking Matthew and Ashley to Europe, something Ronan has point blank refused to do, not half because he doesn’t want to be stuck on a plane for thirteen hours with Declan. 

Adam is selfishly pleased, because, as Ronan and the others know too well, Adam has no one to spend the holidays with. His parents refuse to see him, and the last thing Adam wants is to go back and force his company on them. He feels a pang of regret thinking about it; a regret that’s more like sadness, an ache in his chest, but there’s nothing he can do about his mother and father.

“So, where’s Opal?” Adam asks, as Ronan tosses a bag of brown sugar into the cart now. 

“Maura took her in,” Ronan answers, scrutinizing a box of cereal that has something bright and colorful on the front of it. “She said she and Blue will look after her, since Gansey’s there too and shit.”

“She still swearing?” Adam asks innocently.

“Like a mother fucking sailor,” Ronan growls, because he’s been trying to get Opal to stop swearing for at least two months now, to no avail. Adam privately thinks it’s a lost cause, especially considering that she lives with Ronan. “Where’s whats-his-face, your roommate?”

Adam shrugs, not pulling it off nearly as well as Ronan does. “Jason’s home for the holidays.”

Trying to find a single dorm at Harvard University is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Adam has one roommate, Jason Goodall, a sophomore studying Calculus, and it’s still taking some getting used to. Jason is no Gansey or Ronan or Noah; he’s extremely studious and rarely takes the time to do anything else, and while Adam knows exactly what that’s like, he also has spent the past two years being dragged along on palettes behind a BMW and riding in grocery carts. He hates to put anyone into that _stereotypical ivy-league box,_ but, well...Jason is Jason.

Ronan gives him a sideways glance, still holding the box of cereal.

“So...your room is empty for the week,” he says, voice deliberately casual, and Adam feels his heart stupidly skip a beat.

“Yeah,” he says, just as casual, but he can see the sharp smile tugging at the corners of Ronan’s mouth. There’s something about making Ronan Lynch smile so completely and so genuinely that makes Adam feel almost giddy inside, a feeling he can’t control. It’s been nearly two months since he’s last seen Ronan; he’s missed him so much that it almost hurts inside.

As if reading his thoughts, Ronan sets the box of cereal down, reaches out, and takes ahold of Adam’s hand. They’re in the middle of the grocery store, but somehow Adam can’t care about that now, not when Ronan is tangling their fingers together, stepping close and bringing Adam’s hand to his lips so h can press a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m fucking glad to see you, Parrish,” Ronan murmurs, and Adam feels weightless in love and Ronan’s brightness.

“Me too,” he says, and Ronan’s smile is one just for Adam.


	7. Unravel Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Day Seven:** _”Dawn / awake / lost and found”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late on this because of work but I still wanted to finish up the week!

Ronan Lynch is awake, and he’s kissing Adam Parrish.

Adam’s lips are warm, a little chapped against his own. Ronan tries to memorize the feel of them, just as he tries to memorize the feel of Adam’s body, his hands traveling down the length of Adam’s bare torso, fingers shaping between ribs, spreading across his chest, palms against the flat of his stomach. He can feel Adam quivering beneath him, a mixture of nervousness and excitement all rolled into one, and Ronan feels on edge, standing at the precipice of a canyon, preparing to jump.

“Ronan,” Adam whispers, and the sound of his name sends heat spiking through Ronan, sharp and sweet and pleasant. He slides his hands back up, tilts Adam’s head back and kisses him once, tasting the ragged intake of breath in Adam’s mouth, the cinnamon from an earlier dessert on his tongue; such a stark contrast from what he’s used to.

He draws back, just enough, and presses a kiss to the middle of Adam’s throat, teeth grazing the tender skin before he parts his lips and slides his tongue to it as well.

 _”Ronan,”_ Adam says again, a breathy, staggered sound that’s like a drug to Ronan’s ears. He’s never really been into substances - unless beer is a substance - but Adam gives him a high that he’s pretty sure can never be acquired through any pill or needle anywhere in the world. Nothing can replicate the feel of Adam beneath him, _nothing._

Ronan’s lips skim down the side of Adam’s neck now, until he finds where it joins his shoulder. He can feel Adam’s hand on the back of his head, fingers pressing against the shaved part at the nape of his neck, slightly trembling. Having Adam here is a heady rush, intoxicating and exhilarating, like every street race he’s ever done all rolled into one. He’s terrified that he’s going to make a mistake, or that Adam will realize that he doesn’t really want this after all, and Ronan isn’t sure he can take that, not after everything that’s happened.

He sinks teeth into the beautiful curve of Adam’s shoulder and feels, rather than hears, his sharp gasp, Adam’s fingers tightening. Ronan places slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses all the way back up Adam’s throat, in love with the way that it makes Adam shiver and shake, the way it makes him gasp out Ronan’s name, the way it makes the entire room feel like there is no one else in the entire fucking world but the two of them.

This is not a dream. This is him and Adam, Adam and him.

“Do you love me..?” Ronan breathes, a question against his lips; insecure, because he can’t help it, because sometimes he wakes up he’s afraid that he’s dreamed up Adam and this relationship, and that nothing in it is real. His heart can’t take that; not after everything that’s happened. Not after finding his father, Kavinsky and the pills, Gansey dying and his mother being torn to shreds, the truth of Matthew’s existence, Adam almost being taken by Cabeswater, himself almost being _unmade_ by a demon right in front of him.

It’s almost too much to believe that he’s got something _good_ in his life right now; something so good that it leaves him breathless, something that he’s wanted for so long that he is dizzied with the knowledge that it’s here in his arms right now, within his grasp.

That _Adam_ is here. That Adam _wants_ to be here. It hasn’t been that long since that first kiss at the Barns; less than two months.

Two months that maybe he’s actually dreaming instead of awake; that he’s still asleep even now, imagining the taste of Adam’s tongue in his mouth, the feel of warm, damp skin against his own, the way that Adam’s legs, slender and beautiful, are braced on either side of his hips, bent at the knee and trembling, because Ronan has his hands on Adam’s thighs to hold him steady.

 _Please be real,_ Ronan thinks, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple. _Please come back to me._

_Always come back to me._

Adam pushes up and back, so that he’s half sitting up, one hand curled around the back of Ronan’s neck, the other pressing down into the bedsheets to brace himself.

“Yes,” he murmurs, because he knows Ronan needs to hear it, even if he’s said it a dozen times by now. His mouth is against Ronan’s, so that each word is spoken like a breath in his lungs, tasting of fresh air and life. “Yes, I love you. I love you, Ronan.”

Adam’s voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, and he’s lost the ability to hide his accent now, too far gone to even attempt. Ronan loves the blurred edges of his words, the drawl that slides syllables into the next, and slides his hand into Adam’s hair, fingers tangling as he kisses him, hard enough that Adam is gasping into his mouth, each one of them desperate for more, for each other.

“You’re real,” Ronan mutters, and he shifts, just so, and feels the way Adam’s back curves up, hears the hitch of breath in his throat. “You’re not a dream. I’m not sleeping.”

“Awake,” Adam whispers, and pulls Ronan back down on top of him. “You’re awake.”

Ronan Lynch is awake, and he’s kissing Adam Parrish.

Ronan Lynch is awake, and he’s in love with Adam Parrish.

Adam Parrish is awake and he’s in love with Ronan Lynch.

“Come back to me,” Ronan says, two days later when Adam has to go back to school. 

Adam’s answer is the same as it is every time Ronan tells him this.

“Always.”


	8. What I Need

“What the fucking fuckity fuck - “

Ronan’s tie is already half off by the time they leave the courtroom; Adam can see the sliver of skin at his collarbone, just underneath his Aglionby shirt. His fingers are loosening the knot even further, and somewhere between the courtroom and the hallway, it’s come untucked in a way that only Ronan Lynch could achieve, tails hanging loose, the very picture of careless disinterest.

He lets out another stream of profanities, all of them rather unique. Adam’s a little impressed, in spite of himself.

“Ronan,” says Gansey, “We’re in a _courthouse.”_

As if on cue, the doors open again, and all three of them turn automatically towards it. Robert Parrish is being lead out, the bailif right behind him. Adam feels like a lead weight has dropped into his stomach, and for a moment, he’s back at his house, back in the trailer, back under his father’s control. He can feel the sickening crunch of a fist against bone, and there is a ringing, painful silence in his left ear, a consistent reminder of what he has lost.

Ronan makes a sound like an angry cat, a low growl that has rumbled up from his throat. Gansey says, “Ronan,” again in a warning sort of way that sounds far off, underwater - and Adam is suddenly struck by this picture they make, the three of them. Ronan to his right, as tense and fierce and sharp as a knife, and Gansey to the left, calm, quiet, and collected in a way that screams of politics and importance. The reality of what they’ve just done is inside of Adam’s head, twisting around, shifting until he is momentarily blinded by it.

_”And what did he do?”_

_Ronan is sitting in the witness seat, and for once, there are no sarcastic remarks, no profanities, no careless lounging. His eyes burn as they turn to look at Robert Parrish, loathing and disgust etched in the sharp lines of his face, and Adam is strangely breathless by the sight of it. He looks like a lion, or a tiger, fierce and furious and powerful all at the same time._

_“He smacked the shit out of him,” Ronan growls, voice low, controlled, Adam can tell, with some effort. “He hit him so hard he fell down the stairs and hit his head on the railing.”_

_Adam lifts a hand, an instinctive gesture that makes Ronan’s eyes flicker towards him as Adam touches his ear, his heart hammering hard in his chest. For a split second frozen in time, there is no one else in the courtroom. Ronan is looking at him, and Adam is looking back, and he feels like he can’t breathe, the tension so thick he thinks he might choke on it._

_“And then what?” the prosecutor asks, and the moment snaps as Ronan’s eyes slide to her._

_“Then he picked him - Adam - up,” Ronan says, “And shook him until I came over.”_

_“And what did you do?”_

_Something flickers across Ronan’s face - satisfaction? The corners of his lips curl up in a grin that doesn’t feel like a grin._

_“I punched that mother fucker as hard as I could.”_

In the end, Robert Parrish is let off with a fine and probation.

Ronan is furious. Gansey is angry. Adam is just glad that it’s all over.

He feels the both of them on either side of him, flanking him instinctively as his father passes, and Gansey’s fingers brush Adam’s arm ever so lightly. Ronan is wound up so tightly that for a moment, Adam is afraid he’s going to snap and wind up in jail after all for assault, and he reaches with his own hand, curling fingers loosely around Ronan’s wrist.

He feels a tremor that he doesn’t expect chase its way through Ronan as he freezes in place, unmoving, a dog baring its fangs.

His father disappears behind two doors at the end of the hall and is gone. He hasn’t even looked at Adam once since passing, and Adam feels a strange sadness in the pit of his stomach that mingles with the relief that tastes like a breath of fresh air.

Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding onto Ronan’s wrist. Adam’s fingers slowly fall away, and Ronan has turned, his head angled towards Adam, looking at him with eyes that hold too much inside of them, all twisted together.

“Well,” says Gansey, “It’s over.”

_It’s over,_ Adam thinks, and the words resonate inside of his chest.

_It’s over._

Gansey’s hand is a reassuring eight on his shoulder, his fingers squeezing. Ronan is still looking at him. Adam wants to keep looking back, because he wants to know what it is that he sees.

“Let’s go back,” says Gansey, voice sounding faint - he’s on the wrong side of Adam - and Adam takes a deep, shuddering breath. He can still hear his father’s voice, see his mother’s hunched form, feel Ronan’s warm skin against his fingers.

It’s over.

“Let’s go back,” he says.


	9. Here We Are

"Wake up, shithead," says Ronan.

Adam is still mostly asleep. The drive back from Boston is long and exhausting, and he barely remembers even getting out of the car at four o'clock in the morning, let alone crawling into what used to be Declan's bedroom in the Barns and all but passing out. Now sunlight is streaming in through the gauzy curtains just above the bed, a gentle breeze playing with the hair curling just a little too long at the nape of Adam's neck. 

He opens his eyes, bleary and confused. Adam deduces, mostly from the smirk curling familiar lips, that the man beside his bed is Ronan, too awake and too sharp for the morning, all cut glass that radiates the sunlight back at Adam.

He reaches for the blanket and tries to tug it over his head.

"Oh, no you don't," Ronan says, and yanks at it. There's a brief, sleepy tussle from Adam, and a brief, fierce tussle from Ronan, which ends with the blankets thrown unceremoniously back, coldness shivering through Adam's skin like ice, November air ghosting over his bare arms. He makes a protesting, annoyed sound, trying to reach for the covers - his protection - again, but Ronan shoves him with a hip as he pushes onto the bed to sit beside Adam. A groan escapes the latter, Adam rolling onto his back, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes and trying to block out the brightness.

"What time is it?" he mumbles.

Ronan says, sounding far too awake, "Almost ten, you lazy shit."

"Fuck you," Adam says, without real heat.

"Later," says Ronan blithely, and then, less blithely, "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

It takes Adam a moment to process the innuendo, which makes his cheeks heat, and another moment to understand the secondary emotion which accompanies Ronan's question - namely, confusion.

His hands drop away from his eyes, Adam finally looking up at Ronan, who looks back at him with a fierce expression on his angular face.

"What do you mean, what am I doing in here?" he asks, frowning. "I told you I was coming down this weekend."

It's been almost four months since he's seen Ronan. Four long, tiring months, months that Adam never realized could be so excruciatingly lonely. He hasn't ever gone this long without seeing the other, not since they got together and Adam left for college. It used to be that he made the trip every few weeks or so, and then things began to pile up; school, classes, roommates and the summer semester that Adam had signed up for that had made Ronan grind his teeth and Gansey question whether or not Adam was putting too much on himself again. 

Ronan was not happy in the least about the summer semester; he'd grumbled about it for days, even after Adam explained, for the third or fourth time, the necessity of taking more classes so that he could graduate earlier.

 _Graduating earlier means that I could do more, faster,_ he had said, to which Ronan had replied scathingly, _Not if you fuckin' kill yourself in the process."_

It had been their last conversation, two days ago. Adam still remembers the heat of an angry flush on his cheeks, the biting tone of Ronan's voice. He's still looking up at him, wondering, abruptly terrified, if he's overstepped boundaries or made too many assumptions yet again. Maybe he shouldn't have come this weekend; maybe Ronan, still frustrated with him, had not meant for him to come back.

Adam pushes himself up, intending to push Ronan out of the way, swing his legs to the floor before his embarrassment and hurt can show. "Sorry, I just - "

He's stopped by an arm around his chest, Ronan's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Adam turns to look at him, and Ronan isn't looking at him, his face turned away slightly so that Adam can only see a part of his expression. The rest of his handsome face is cast in shadow, and Adam aches to reach out and touch his cheek, but doesn't dare.

He's missed Ronan Lynch so acutely that it's like a physical pain in his chest.

"I meant," Ronan says, in a low voice that sounds ground out from his throat, or his chest. His other hand is curled tightly in his lap, one jean clad leg braced out, arms, ironically, covered in a red flannel shirt tossed haphazardly over his black tank. Adam can just barely see the tattoo curling up from the collar. "What are you doing here, in this room?"

"Well, I needed somewhere to sleep," Adam says, and Ronan makes an infuriated, frustrated, angry noise, like a cat about to pounce.

"You fucker," Ronan snaps and finally - _finally_ \- as a beam of light flickers across Ronan's face, Adam can see the faint traces of red across his pale cheeks. _"Why are you in this fucking room."_

It's a question both directed at Adam, and himself, and they both know it. Ronan seems to be fighting some internal war with himself, while Adam stares at him, his heart pounding in his chest, his fingers suddenly trembling in his lap, blankets pooled around his waist. He can't stop the lightness from spreading through his heart, filling his senses, until there is nothing and no one else in the room but himself and Ronan Lynch.

Ronan, his magical dreamer.

Ronan, his favorite person.

_Why are you here instead of there with me?_

_Did I make you feel like I didn't want you?_

It's terrifying, exhilarating territory, still unfamiliar even after all these months. Adam swallows hard.

"Ronan," he says, "I love you."

Ronan doesn't so much as lean over as he _lunges._ Hands trap Adam's face, rough palms and gentle fingers, the hiss of leather straps by his ear as the bracelets slide down his cheek. Ronan's mouth is hot, and the rest of him is too, and there is a sharp edged desperation in every press of his lips, every sweep of his tongue; a desperation that Adam matches, because he's missed him, because he loves him, because finally, after all these months, Ronan is _here,_ right in front of him, warm and familiar and _alive, alive, alive._

Fingers skirt under Adam's shirt, push it aside, then off. He feels electric and on fire.

He _exists._ And Ronan Lynch exists with him.

At some point - Adam doesn't remember when - Ronan presses a kiss to the inside of Adam's thigh, faint stubble scraping the sensitive skin, and Adam drinks in the sight of him hungrily, like a starving man desperate for sustenance. 

At another point, Ronan has both of Adam's hands pressed back against the pillows, his own fingers splayed in between each of Adam's, keeping him in place.

At yet another point, Adam has his mouth to Ronan's heart, words whispered, breaths gasped, until Ronan grabs for him again, needy and desperate.

Ronan takes him apart so thoroughly with mouth and hands and body that Adam can't think straight.

Then he returns the favor.

"I missed you."

It's late afternoon. Adam is curled on his side, tousled hair falling in gentle waves across his flushed cheeks. Behind him, Ronan's lips move against the nape of Adam's neck, pressing a kiss. An arm is around his waist, keeping Adam tightly in place with his back against Ronan's chest, and Ronan breathes out a long, satisfied sigh that's almost like his smoker's breath, but not quite. Lips brush Adam's ear as Ronan leans over him, surrounding him with his warmth, his presence.

"Asshole," whispers Ronan, and he says it like he means, _I love you._


	10. We Built it So Thick

He has nightmares.

Black, twisted things steeped in blood that runs like rivers through his mind, vines that wrap around his neck and choke the life out of him until his vision goes dark and his hands go limp.

 _Betrayed,_ Adam thinks, just before he slips away.

He dreams of Ronan too. Dreams of Ronan being _unmade,_ of being torn apart by demons, by nightmares, shot by Colin Greenmantle's lackeys, drowned in a pool of his own blood.

Of being strangled by him, Adam Parrish. _The Magician._

The coward.

He can't get it out of his head sometimes, the memories of his fingers around Ronan's neck, digging into his throat. Even if the others tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he was being _possessed,_ he still can't erase what he's done, what his body has done. It has betrayed him, made him feel as though he can't trust it even after everything has calmed down and the demon is gone, gone, _gone._

It's the worst when he's at school, and he wakes up in his dormitory in the middle of the night, gasping and choking. His roommate Dave is a heavy sleeper and thankfully doesn't ever notice when Adam bolts upright, clutching his heaving chest with sweaty, shaking fingers, hair a tangled sandy mess; Adam doesn't want to see the look of pity or annoyance on his face, and he hates how weak and pathetic he must seem. Sometimes he just rolls over, closes his eyes, tries to even out his breathing, and go back to sleep on his own.

Sometimes he texts Ronan.

He doesn't expect answers. Ronan is still Ronan, after all, and nine times out of ten he doesn't even have his cell phone within a ten foot radius of himself. But it soothes Adam, somehow, to send these texts into the void anyway, knowing that there is someone else out there who cares about his well-being - even if that _someone_ is six feet of angry Irish farmer with a dreamt up hoofed child. Even ten and a half hours apart, it helps calm Adam's heart to think of Ronan and Opal, of Blue and Gansey and Henry, of the women of 300 Fox Way. 

Of Persephone, still.

He's alone, one time, waking up from a nightmare that he can't remember except for the _sensations_ of it, the _taste_ of it. Dave is away for the weekend and when Adam jerks up, almost yelling, breath tangled in his throat, the room seems so _empty_ just on his own. The shadows stretch and coil and taunt; it's like he can hear the heartbeat of the room in his own ears, and Adam almost falls out of his bed in the attempt to snatch up his phone. He manages, finally, to grab hold of it with trembling fingers and scroll down until he finds the contact of _Ronan Lynch_ and hits _send message._

 

The cell phone is a cheap, flip one; Adam would have refused it had it not been his going-away present from the others, and he has to admit that it's come in handy. It's his lifeline back to Henrietta, back to the people he considers his family.

Back to the people he loves.

The message is short, simple. Adam can still feel the fingers crawling up his back, circling his neck, ready to throttle him, as though the nightmare still has a hold on him, and maybe it does. It's hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything other than painstakingly punch in each letter slow and steady until he has it written out.

_Thinking of you._

There. There. He's okay. He's okay.

He adds another message, sent thirty three seconds after the first.

_I miss you._

Adam closes both the phone and his eyes, his heart rate still racketing around in his ears so that it feels like all he knows. But even just sending the message takes a small weight off of his shoulders, even if it's not the same thing as the real person right beside him. It seems impossible that he could miss Ronan Lynch, with all his barbs and jabs and jagged glass edges and sharp presence. After all of the fights they've had, all of the metaphorical pushing and shoving, it seems almost ludicrous that Adam can miss him - that Adam Parrish is _dating_ Ronan Lynch, but...

Here they are.

Or at least, here Adam is, curled up in his bed, feeling the ache of separation more acutely than he can ever recall. It eats away at him, drags its cold fingers through his chest until it hurts to breathe, until he's shaking under the covers that blanket him.

He doesn't remember falling asleep again, and he doesn't remember the second nightmare, but it's there, the _feeling_ of it, burrowing into him, making him scream aloud in his head, scream until he's hoarse, until tears, hateful tears, are beading at the corners of his eyes, and he's thrashing about, trying to free himself from the confines of the terror that fills his veins like ice -

"Parrish. _Adam."_

There is a voice - he's not sure whether it's in his head or in real life, or maybe just the memory of a voice. Adam struggles to rise from the cold fear, his chest so tight that it hurts to draw breath -

_"Adam fucking Parrish, wake the fuck up."_

He wakes up.

It takes him several seconds to realize what's going on. He's still in bed, curled up on his side, gasping and jerking, but he's no longer alone. There is someone behind him, Adam's back pressed against a solid warmth, and a strong arm is wrapped around Adam's waist, holding him tightly in place. Lips are ghosting across the shell of his ear, and there is that voice again, vibrant and _alive,_ filling all of his senses, slowly overtaking the terror.

"...Ronan?"

The answer that greets him is doused in sarcasm. "No, it's Santa Claus. You didn't send your letter in time, fucker."

Adam's head feels underwater, his limbs heavy. He can't untangle the threads that connect everything together, because how can Ronan Lynch be here in his dorm room, in his cramped twin bed, miles upon miles upon miles away from the Barns and Henrietta. It's still dark outside; there is no light coming in from behind the thin curtains except silvery moonlight, and everything is still and quiet except for the sound of their breathing.

After a few moments, things slowly start to become more coherent.

"What are you doing here?" Adam mumbles, finally, and he can feel Ronan's lips curve into a smile against the back of his neck.

"I can't come visit you? Fuck that."

"Stop fucking swearing."

"Fuck you, too."

"Ronan," Adam says, "What are you doing here?"

There's silence for a moment, and then Ronan says quietly, "I was already on the way here. I got your message."

Adam slides his hand up until it grazes the arm that's wrapped around him. Ronan shifts, and Adam twists around, needing to see him, the reality of him, the shape of him even in the dark, firm and shadowed and _real._ Ronan's face is sharp in profile, jaw strong, and Adam drinks him in hungrily, eyes wide and dark in the moonlight, taking in every inch of him. 

Ronan's hand is achingly gentle for a man so violent. He cradles Adam's face in one work roughened palm, tilts his head up, and kisses him gently, Adam's fingers sliding up to rest on his wrist to keep it in place, eyes fluttering shut.

"I'm here," Ronan mutters. _"You're_ here."

His mouth is still pressed to Adam's, the words spoken against his lips as though he's trying to imprint them there, a continued reminder of what they have. The nightmare is still clawing at his throat, but Ronan's presence is like a balm to his heart and his mind, soothing away the blood and the fear and replacing them with care and devotion. Ronan holds Adam's face the way he held Chainsaw as a chick; cradled between palms, tender and achingly gentle, as though Adam is something precious to be protected. There is a stark and startling contrast in the way that Ronan _is_ and the way Ronan _feels,_ and Adam is breathless with the way that this sharp souled young man can be so unbelievably fragile at times.

Ronan also holds him as though he's afraid that he'll break - that _they'll_ break. Adam knows that Ronan is just waiting for the day when Adam decides this isn't what he wants, because Ronan Lynch has a hard time believing he deserves Adam, just as Adam has a hard time believing that he deserves Ronan Lynch. How is it that of all the people to want him, it was _Ronan?_ Adam doesn't know how to love, has never thought it was something he was even allowed to have in his life, and yet he has an abundance of it now, startling and precious.

Ronan kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose, his forehead, and then, delicately, with great care, each of his eyes. He kisses Adam's lips, then draws his hand towards his own and presses a dozen kisses or more, until Adam is dizzy with the sensation of it, of Ronan, and the nightmares are ebbing away, a distant memory.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Adam mumbles. His fingers are tingling. "I only sent that text like an hour ago."

"I sped," Ronan says, with a trace of a smirk as he kisses the palm of Adam's hand. "I was already mostly here."

"You're gonna get a ticket one day, asshole."

"Gee, Parrish, tell me how you really feel."

"I love you."

Every part of Ronan freezes, and then relaxes. His cheeks are warm as Adam looks at him, and Ronan drops Adam's hand, slides his arm around Adam's waist, and draws him closer, burying his face in the crook of Adam's neck where it slides into his shoulder.

"I love you." Ronan's voice is very quiet. "And I'm here. You're okay."

Adam's fingers curl in the fabric of Ronan's teeshirt, his body instinctively bowing towards Ronan's even in the limited space they have. Ronan is overwhelming in his entirety, taking up more space than just the physical, pressing and glowing and burning into Adam.

"We're okay," Adam murmurs.


End file.
